


Observation

by Saathi1013



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Catholic Character, Character Study, Gen, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Moments of Matt's life, randomly-surfacing fragments of memory, resonate and reflect with his religion in strange, unexpected ways.  It could all be in his mind, of course, a theological form of apophenia.  Whatever it is, he doesn't inquire too closely.  Isolated cases of spiritual déjà vu are the least of his worries, nowadays.</i>
</p><p>Matt and Catholicism; faith and sacraments and the community of people that have influenced his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observation

**Author's Note:**

> If the descriptions/tags thus far haven't warned you already: this fic deals pretty heavily with religious (specifically: Roman Catholic) themes and imagery. It is neither intended to endorse nor condemn/diminish anyone's beliefs or lack thereof, though it does contain some criticism of the Church along with positive descriptions of the faith.
> 
> I understand that that kind of thing is not to everyone's taste, and that religion is profoundly personal for many people - so if you are sensitive to such topics and themes, I will not be upset if you hit the back button now. But please be respectful in the comments.
> 
> And yes, I was raised Catholic and this fic does draw upon that background in some ways.
> 
> \--
> 
> No beta; grammar/spelling errors, if pointed out, will be corrected ASAP. Additional concrit: pm me.

**\- O -**

 

Matt's the first to admit that his religious observance has been... _inconsistent_ over the years.  He remembers Sunday Mass when he was a child, button-down shirts with scratchy collars and a clip-on tie, fidgeting in smooth-shiny pews, learning when to sit and kneel and genuflect, the soothing rhythm of call and response: 

 _The Lord be with you. / And also with you._  
_Lift up your hearts. / We lift them up to the Lord._  
_Let us give thanks to the Lord our God. / It is right to give him thanks and praise._

He remembers shaking hands, remembers his father holding out hymnals and missals, tracing the lines of tightly-printed text so that Matt could follow along when he was still learning to read.  They'd always contributed something to the collection plate, even when money was tight.  Matt had put a jar in the kitchen for pocket change and coins he'd picked up on the sidewalk, just so they could give alms without needing charity themselves later.

(Not that Jack Murdock would ever have taken charity.)

It had almost been...  _numinous_ , being part of a crowd, raising his young voice in a tentative, reedy alto that still managed to blend with the swelling collective sound filling the vaulted space above and around them.  Something profound in the repetition of ritual, seasonal shifts in the colors, the vestments, the flowers, the readings, punctuated by the grandness of significant holidays.  He'd felt special, _privileged_ the first time he'd been allowed to take Communion, though his suit had been second-hand and slightly large, his polished shoes uncomfortable.  He still remembers seeing the proud smile on his father's face.

There's no such memory for his first Reconciliation, though; that had come after the accident.  A few of his fellow students from Sunday school seemed uncertain of what they'd confess, too young for any significant transgressions, though even minor ones weighed heavily on others.

(Matt heard them all, though he tried not to.  He'd understood the virtue of keeping secrets young.)

His first confession had been of his anger, his frustration, disgraceful resentment of his fate.  Penance taught him the value of prayer; when Stick taught him meditation, it had come easily, the stillness and quiet and focus already familiar.  He'd worn out two rosaries in the time between father and mentor in an attempt to use the measured rhythm as buffer against the howling input of the world, string unraveling and plastic beads falling loose in his palm like a broken promise.

By the time he'd reached the age of confirmation, his faith had become similarly tattered.  He couldn't say why, but though he applied himself to each requirement assiduously, had genuine rapport with his sponsor - a former teacher with whom he volunteered at the homeless shelter on weekends - and could recite doctrine like he'd later know the principles of the law, it still felt... remote, and grew only fainter the older he got.

So when he left for college, he began attending Mass less and less frequently, despite his best intentions.  He put it down to the unfamiliarity of the people in his new congregation, his lack of ties to the leadership, but really, he was allowing himself to get _distracted:_  by classes, by girls, by friends, and by all the sudden freedoms of living under his own recognizance.

He still carried a rosary in his pocket, though, out of habit and out of necessity when he got caught in too-loud, too-crowded places.  He still said the prayers, still called upon the saints - Lucy, Anthony, Monica, Raymond of Peñafort - as needed.  But he'd lost the sense of community, of the larger web of faith, and solitude became his new routine.  As he'd gotten older and increasingly aware of the faults and flaws of the global institution, its history, and the actions of its leadership, he'd been content with this outcome.

Which means that when his steps had taken him into St. Patrick's, a building he'd noted but never entered, it being further from home than the church he'd gone to in his youth, he'd been as surprised as anything.  The smells were almost the same, but older, more stone than brick beneath the smoke of candles, the sting of artificial lemon wood polish, the layered echoes of lifetimes of consecrated incense and oil and wine and holiday flowers, of dust in rafters and the nooks and crannies of sculptures impossible to clean thoroughly.  "Are you here for confession?" a voice - Father Lantom - had asked.

"I-" Matt had started to demur, but something made him say, "You know, I think I am," instead.

Since then, he's been reminded, again and again, of his history with the Church.  Moments of his life, randomly-surfacing fragments of memory, resonate and reflect with his religion in strange, unexpected ways.  It could all be in his mind, of course, a theological form of apophenia.

Whatever it is, he doesn't inquire too closely.  Isolated cases of spiritual déjà vu are the least of his worries, nowadays.

 

 

**\- Jack Murdock -**

  _We now pray for this child, who will have to face the world with its temptations and fight the devil in all his cunning._

 

Jack holds his son in his arms, smoothing back Matt's damp hair as the paramedic carefully rinses the child's eyes with saline solution.

"What's his name?" she asks him.

"Matt," Jack responds.

"Okay, okay," she says. "You see what I'm doing?" Jack nods. "I need you to keep doing it, okay? We've got other people hurt, I need to check on them but I'll be right back, okay?" Jack nods again and again, takes the bottle she presses into his hand. "Keep rinsing his eyes," she says. "And watch for any changes, can you do that until I get back?"

"I'm his father," Jack says, pouring the water the way she'd shown him. Matt's eyelids are puffy and swollen, inflammation spreading across his face like a crimson mask. "Of course I'll watch over him."

 

 

**\- Claire Temple -**

_Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed._

 

"Here," Claire says, pressing an alarmingly large pill into Matt's palm.

"No," he says.  "No drugs."

"Take it," she says firmly.  "It's just ibuprofen.  And here," she says, handing him a glass of water.  "Don't make me get the good stuff."

"No," he says.  "I can't go back out there if I'm-"

Blood trickles from his side, another gash just below his ribs.  "I'm not letting you go anywhere," she says.  "They're not getting any more pieces of you tonight."

He scowls, gritting his teeth at the familiar bite of the needle.  "I have to-"

"Let yourself rest," she says, "you've done enough for today."  She ties off one knot and starts another suture with efficient grace.  Her touch isn't benediction, isn't forgiveness, but it brings him back to himself, from damnation to too-fragile mortality again.  

"But-" he starts, stopping when she glares at him.  Pointedly, she leans into him slightly, her hip putting pressure on his left knee, which he'd wrenched with a bad fall dodging gunfire in the rain.  His nerves flare brightly in pain and protest, and he groans despite himself.  "Fine," he grumbles, and downs the capsule, sticky gelatin catching in his throat before he chases it with the water.

" _Rest,_ " she tells him, and he does.

 

 

**\- Karen Page -**

_I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin._

 

Karen fidgets more nowadays.  It's usually quiet enough that Matt can't say anything, but he notices it in a thousand small ways.  The tapping of a pencil, graphite splintering minutely against her desk, her jittering knee an epicenter of rippling air currents, the twist of her hair around one finger sending traces of her lavender shampoo across the room in little bursts every time her wrist rolls.

She's also drinking an alarming amount of coffee in a transparent attempt to make up for her increasing fatigue, with predictable results.

Today, she's fiddling with her necklace, the strands of fake pearls clicking under her restless fingers.  Matt prefers it to the pencil tapping, honestly, but it turns out to be the last straw for his partner.

"Oh my god will you please _stop it_ with the twitching?" Foggy blurts.

Karen freezes.  "I'm sorry," she says.

"Hey," Matt says, pulling his earbud out.  "Let's leave this 'till tomorrow, all right?  Discovery always gives me a headache anyway."

"Yeah, all right," Foggy says, arching his back until three vertebrae pop.  "Josie's?"

"I'm in," Matt agrees.

Karen pauses in the middle of packing her bag.  "I think I'll sit this one out," she tells them.  It's not the first time she's declined their invites, and she's sounded genuinely regretful each time.  One of these days, Matt hopes to find out why she's building these walls.

Not tonight, it seems.

 

 

**\- Father Lantom -**

_Send your Holy Spirit upon them to be their helper and guide._  
_Give them the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of right judgment and courage, the spirit of knowledge and reverence.  
_ _Fill them with the spirit of wonder and awe in your presence._

 

Without Father Lantom, Matt would be dead and damned by now.  Admittedly, Matt's got more names than one to credit for avoiding the former, but spiritual salvation requires a specialist.

"I didn't expect you to be so _literal_ about it, Matthew," the priest says, hissing as a drop of hot milk lands on the side of his hand.  Matt can tell that it's slightly hotter than ideal, but he doesn't mind.  "The teachers have been getting questions from students, and Mrs. Gallardo says that the diocese needs to issue a condemnation."

"That's because her son deals ecstasy between classes at Lincoln Tech," Matt replies equably.  "She's afraid I'm going to drop him off a bridge."

"You _won't_ ," Father Lantom says with finality, sliding a cup and saucer over in Matt's direction before settling down at the table with his own.

"No," Matt says, giving the priest a placid smile.  "He's nonviolent.  I might scare him a little, if I'm nearby on a slow night."

"I think his mother's determined to pre-empt you on that," Father Lantom admits.  "You should hear the way she talks about you."

"I'm sure I will," Matt says, chuckling.

"Why?" Father Lantom asks, taking a sip of his coffee.  "You going to do more than lurk in one of the back pews during Sunday services?  I see you slipping out during the blessing."

Matt ducks his head.  "Maybe when I'm not banged up from Saturdays," he says.  "It gets awkward to explain regular injuries."

"You _could_ get injured less," Father Lantom points out.

Matt chuckles ruefully.  "You say that like I don't try."

"You should try harder," Father Lantom says.  "You're no good to anyone in the grave."

Matt feels his face go blank.  He tries not to think about that.  Tries not to think about what would happen to the city (to Foggy, to Karen, to Claire, to his neighbors, to...) if that happened.  And beyond that, beyond that wall of voices, too many of whom he's heard in anguish, there's the seed of unknown finality waiting to blossom into fear that he quashes whenever he senses it.  "Do you think," he says, then stops, swallowing.  "Do you think good intentions and results outweigh regrettable means?"

"You're not going to hell for wearing horns, Matthew," Father Lantom says.  "But remember Wilson Fisk."

Matt doesn't like to, but he asks anyway, "What about him?"

The kindness of Father Lantom's smile is in his voice, as well, when he corrects Matt: "This isn't about _him_ , but about what you _did_ with him.  Not only did you not kill him despite having means, motive, and opportunity - as earthly law likes to put it - but in turning him over to the police, you recognized that your judgement was not the final one.  You may well be an instrument of a greater power, whether man's justice or God's or both, but only an instrument, not its ultimate incarnation."  He reaches out, and his hand rests gently on Matt's shoulder.  "There is something to be said for serving a higher power with humility, to the best of your ability."

Matt presses his fingertips to the sides of his coffee cup, feeling the warmth of the beverage leaching through the china, the faint ridges of a painted pattern under the glaze.  "Humility," he murmurs, ruminating.

"...well," Father Lantom admits.  "I wouldn't call the _costume_ humble, but I suppose it's all the rage for you modern vigilantes."  This surprises a laugh out of Matt, and Father Lantom pats his shoulder once more before withdrawing his hand.

 

 

**\- Stick -**

_Restore him to health and strength, make him joyful in spirit, and ready to embrace your will._

 

"Get up," Stick had said, over and over.  Some days, that's all he'd said.  And Matt, being a Murdock, had done so.

For years, the old man's words rang in Matt's mind every time he got knocked down, literally or figuratively.   _Get up.  Get up.  Get up._  A valuable lesson, sure, but as the message-bearer had abandoned him, Matt had no use for the memory of the voice that had spoken them when it brought along pointless emotional baggage, too.  

He replaces Stick's voice with another; he tries his father's at first, but that doesn't quite work, doesn't feel right.  Jack Murdock had never wanted his son to have to fight.  So the next time Matt finds himself on his back, bleeding and bruised, he tries something else.  

" _Get up,_ " Matt tells himself, and he does.

 

 

**\- Foggy Nelson -**

_May you ready and willing to help and comfort all who come to you in need.  
_ _And may the blessings promised to the compassionate be yours in abundance._

 

"Okay, EIN number: check," Matt says, hunched over his laptop on the couch.

"Yessss," Foggy says, doing a little dance that makes the springs in his chair squeak, which means Matt can laugh at him.

"Don't break my furniture," he says, "I won't have the money to get more for... about two hundred and thirty-seven years, if this loan calculator is accurate."

Foggy blows a raspberry at him.  "Whatever, buzzkill, what's next?"

"Speaking of money: bank accounts, insurance, budget."  He pokes around online and frowns.  "A lot of this might not be electronic at first."

"So let's go bank shopping," Foggy says.  "And maybe we can scout real estate?  See if we can spot the future home of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law?"

Matt smiles again.  "You do like saying that," he says.  "Do you doodle it all over your notebooks, too, or just bar napkins?"

"I'm not telling and you'll never know, buddy," Foggy retorts.  "Just be glad I'm not expecting you to carry me over the threshold when we find a place."

"Why am _I_ carrying _you?"_

Foggy shrugs.  "Makes a better story for the grandkids."

Matt throws a pillow at him.

 

 

**\- Wilson Fisk -**

_With patience firm and virtue high / The weakness of our flesh supply.  
_ _Far from us drive the foe we dread / And grant us your peace instead._

 

Public opinion on Wilson Fisk is divided, and so vehemently in dispute that the judge clears the courtroom twice before declaring it closed to the public altogether.  This doesn't stop the threats, however - against Fisk, against the judge, against the prosecutor, against the defending attorneys.  "It's a madhouse in there!" Foggy had said, and then switched to his best (terrible) Charlton Heston impression, "A MADHOUSE!"  Karen had giggled at him, but Matt had frowned, now unable to rely on news blogs' live coverage to keep an ear on the proceedings.

So he spends his lunch hours as close to the courtroom as he can, offering to run over courtesy copies of current case documents or pick up food for the others.  Sometimes he just says he needs some fresh air.

"He doesn't really expect us to believe that, does he?" he hears Karen ask as he's heading down the stairs one afternoon.

"I sure hope not," Foggy answers, too-loud like he knows Matt is still within enhanced earshot.

Today, he wants to check in on the jury's response to the forensic accountant's testimony.  Money is sexy - especially in these quantities - but numbers are dull, so it could go either way.  By the time he arrives, the session has adjourned for lunch, but as one of the ASAs is leaving, the bailiff stationed in the hall delays closing the door just long enough for Matt to get a crystal-clear impression of the room beyond the insulated walls.

It will never not be satisfying to witness Wilson Fisk in a jumpsuit and shackles.  Matt doesn't realize he's smiling until the bailiff asks, "Good day?"

"I was just reminded," Matt replies.  "I got into the right line of work."

"Aren't you a defense attorney?" the bailiff asks.

"Among other things," Matt tells him, and gives the bailiff a little wave before heading back outside.

 

 

 

 

\-- end --

 

**Author's Note:**

> Each section contains a quote (in italics) from the texts of Catholic liturgy, mostly sacraments. Sources are, in order of appearance in this story: Mass, Baptism, First Communion, First Reconciliation (Confession/Penance), Confirmation, Healing of the Sick (Unction), Marriage, Holy Orders.


End file.
